It is raining heavily. Rains look strangely out of place in the mid of September here. It’s Saturday afternoon, but it doesn’t look like that. We woke up late, and the morning kind of stretched out into the afternoon inconspicuously.
Been reading Of Human Bondage with lots of coffee. It sounds so good, only if it weren’t for a single undercurrent of thought constantly picking away at your mind. Got a call from Ashank, an old friend, after a long time. Picked up the few trails of a life, which is fast withering away in the Year of the Change.
The rain is coming from all sides. It enters the room through the door, driven by the winds, wetting the blanket. Yet, on the opposite wall from the door, it enters the room by the window, wetting the table, stray notes i had picked out from my damp bag and left there to get dried. Devious rains…but I don’t get irritated, I like the way it’s imposing itself on us. And I know I’ll hate it in the night when the insects will crawling in hordes for our lives and our skin.
I am reminded of a book I read, long back into childhood, about the childhood years of Rabindranath Tagore. He describes the old alleyways, damp nooks, dark rooms, of the big house of his childhood, and all the things his boundless imagination made out of it. I close the door, the room is damp and ill-lit, the fan is off, but i don’t switch it on, as it’d disrupt the old, romantic tenor of the room and of my memories.
Out of place, out of time. Somewhere else….in my thoughts.